you say you want passion (i think you found it)
by swishandflickwit
Summary: She has always been a woman of action. (And apparently this Woman of Action has to add something new to the List of Things Emma Fails At: Suppressing Her Attraction to Killian Jones.) Roommates AU.
**AN: IT'S ALMOST SUNDAY!**

* * *

 _Fuck._

She slams his head against the steering wheel of his own car – hard enough to knock him out.

She's the one to cuff him and haul his ass to jail where he belongs and still. _Still_ –

It's not enough.

 _"The hell would you know about family?_ "

His words echo in her head and it's _deafening_ ; makes her ears ring from the way her blood rushes through her veins in anger, makes her fingers twitch with the urge to _hit_ something (or someone, preferably _Ryan_ ) and her feet itch to run - take her Bug, and leave everything behind; to get away from the stifling waves of emotions coursing through her.

Cause there's anger there, yeah, and hate. And a lot of bitterness, too. Underneath it all however, is sadness and loneliness as well, the seemingly inescapable feeling of vulnerability and fragility.

 _"Nothing,"_ is what she told his unconscious body.

Cause who was she? _Just a lost girl, who doesn't matter,_ her demons like to whisper. _Doesn't think she ever will._

God, what the _fuck_ even _possessed her_ to lay it out, to fucking _Ryan_ of all people, like that?

Well... she knows the answer but doesn't want to think it, lest the heat simmering beneath her skin grows into an inferno. But she forgets about the cupcakery nestled conveniently across her apartment building and is immediately reminded of the thoughts she was trying so hard to bury.

And normally, she'd step inside and buy herself a cinnamon and buttercream cupcake (her favorite). Maybe even chat a bit with the owner, Elsa, if she isn't busy cause they're low-key friends like that. In fact, she can see Elsa through the glass and Elsa must see her since she's waving at her excitedly from behind the treats and the glass but Emma pretends to not notice.

Because tonight, _tonight_ , the delicacies on the storefront fuel her anger, makes her blood boil and the voices in her head grow louder.

 _Alone_ , they chant.

 _Lost girl_ , they screech.

 _Orphan_ , they scream.

Her heels pound harshly against the pavement as she runs to her building and she focuses on the sound they make. The clack as they meet the hardwood floors of her lobby and the click as she taps her foot erratically against the metal of the elevator – anything to escape the vociferations in her head.

If Emma could, she'd run from her own emotions.

(She really, really, _really_ would.)

But seeing as how it is still an impossible feat (if anyone could find a way, let her be the _first_ to know), she settles for irascibly kicking her shoes off the moment she totters into her apartment, so hard that they rattle the wall opposite the entrance.

"Swan? Is that you?" Killian, her roommate for the better part of two years now, hollers from their living room on the opposite side of the wall that blocks most of their apartment from view when one enters.

It's a stupid question, of course. She's the only other person with a key to the place – apart from their landlady, who's obligated to have a key to _everyone's_ unit. But the fact remains that she's the _only_ other occupant of their apartment, loners that they both are.

(The reason that she chose him, after all. They understood each other, in a level that scares her, like most emotional connections do, but this way she didn't have to deal with nosy relatives or pesky significant others. She could have chosen worse.

At least, that's what she keeps telling herself every time he compliments her, when his gaze lingers too long or he says something particularly resonating.

And still, she thinks, it could have been _much_ worse.

So she bears it.

But mostly, she just walks away.)

(She refuses to think about how _he_ remains, even when she turns her back on him; buries what that could possibly mean for her.

What _she_ could possibly mean to _him_.)

Her normal response would be to roll her eyes and retort with a sarcastic response.

She's in no mood tonight and intends to march straight to her room when suddenly, _he's_ there – stretching his arms out the width of the narrow hallway so there's no way for her to get through pass the dining area and up the stairs to her loft bedroom, unless she wants to duck under his arm and squeeze herself between his torso and the wall.

(Tempting. She's seen the man half naked after all, an inevitable occurrence when you share living quarters, and another thing she needs to add to the _List of Emotions Emma Suppresses Daily:_ her Attraction to Killian Jones, so, that option is a resounding _no_.)

(Still, the guy talks a big game but at least he can back it up.

 _Not_ that she'll ever tell him that cause his ego doesn't need to be bigger than it already is.)

She glares at him.

"Jones," she bites out, her tone clipped and brooking no argument. "Get. out."

"Rough night, love?" Her eyes grow even narrower as her stare intensifies. Judging by the quirk of his ever-jumping eyebrow and the mischief that underlines his inquiring tone, he knows _exactly_ what kind of night she's had.

"Get the _fuck_ out of my way, _now_. I'm tired, I'm _pissed off as fuck_ and I'm about ready to pass out." She sighs as she closes her eyes and rubs at her temples, trying to cool her temper. "It's been a long day."

"Listen, Swan," he starts as all mirth drains away from his face, replaced with a solemnity that scares her because she's pretty sure she has an idea of where he's taking this conversation, "I know you said you didn't want to make a big deal out of today but–"

At the mention of what exactly she was trying to avoid, something in Emma snaps and she shoves him.

"God," she snarls, "do you ever just _shut up?_ "

Something in his expression shifts then and she knows what comes next, how his gaze will soften and how his words will coax. Or _worse_ , how his silence will echo with understanding and his soul will ease with space and a part of her comes alive with the urge to reach out and fill the quiet and unburden herself onto the part of him he's shaped for _her_.

But she doesn't want that, doesn't even think she's _capable_ of such an act anymore – not since the Swans and the countless other foster families that eventually gave her away. She thought she maybe found that ability with Neal, who seemed to understand her given that they were both abandoned.

But, that was a long time ago and she isn't that naive seventeen-year old any longer.

"Emma..." he says in a tone that usually means he's about to knock down a brick in her supposedly impenetrable walls.

(She says "supposedly impenetrable" because she prides herself on her ability to keep her emotions in check, a helpful ability to have in her line of work. But every time this happens, every time he gets just a little _too_ close, and she shuts him down, the bastard looks at her like he _knows_ what's going through her head anyway.

"Open book," he once called her as he gazed at her with his too blue, too perceptive eyes and _what the fuck,_ right? Because if Emma was a book then she was no one's favorite, she wasn't even a chapter on anyone's book, not even her own for fuck's sake.

She's not worth a mention. Her parents and the system made sure of that.)

 _Fuck_ , she thinks, not for the first time tonight and, she's starting to think, not for the last. Jones rarely says her first name so it means Serious Shit is about to happen when he does and she just _can't_.

She doesn't want soft and she doesn't want to be read and she doesn't want the unspoken bond between them to grow any stronger than it already has so she does the next think she thinks is best.

Whatever he's about to say gets cut because Emma's lips find their way to his – a fleeting peck with the intention of quieting the words about to pour from his mouth.

And that's _all_ it's meant to be.

But that simple contact does _something_ to her and all of a sudden, her blood ignites with a different sort of heat - one that is definitely _not_ a product of her anger.

When she pulls away she feels his breathing quicken, little puffs of air that fan across her cheeks like he ran a marathon when it was just a _kiss, Jesus,_ but she finds she's breathing just as hard and still, can't seem to get enough oxygen. He presses his forehead against hers and whispers, "Emma," again but it's not so much him saying her name but him silently asking, _what are you doing?_

And it's a good question because hell if she knows. Going through her thought process at this moment, all she can really say is that she's so god damn tired of the way the hate overcomes her, how the anger and the bitterness and the loneliness makes her see red and her body tighten and quake with rage – that she wants a different kind of heat to prickle her skin, for his touch to make her blood sing instead of boil.

And, if she's being honest, what she _really_ wants is to _forget_ about this night and what it means for her.

But, because she's Emma, she would rather the Earth create a wormhole and happily have it suck her into it _right now_ than admit any of that.

So.

She goes for muttering, "Shut. _up_ ," against his lips again to emphasize the point of this little... whatever this is, before grabbing at his shirt and hauling him against her for another kiss instead.

She _has_ always been a woman of action.

(And apparently this Woman of Action has to add something new to the _List of Things Emma Fails At:_ Suppressing Her Attraction to Killian Jones.)

The force with which she pulls him to her has him stumbling and he braces his hands against the wall beside her head so as not to crush her with his weight. But it's not enough for her so she tightens her grip on him and swipes her tongue along his bottom lip.

She expects him to give in, to soften against her, but is surprised when it seems to startle him instead and he pulls away.

She wants to shove him again just to hide the utter humiliation of being rejected by him, but stops at the look in his face - concentrated and assessing her own, probably for a clue as to what she could possibly be thinking, an explanation for her behavior.

Mostly, she thinks, cause she forgets just what an old-fashioned gentleman he is, he's just checking to see if she's okay, if she's _sure_.

Her hands travel down the length of his back, her intention to pull at his rear so that his lower body can fall into the cradle of her thighs. She nearly groans in frustration when he stops her trajectory, thinks he's going to ask her to stop, say that this isn't fair because it's _not_.

She's aware of his feelings – that maybe he wants more (she's sure, actually, but that's not something she wants to dwell on) and it makes her grow cold because she's not _cruel_ (the world is cruel enough as it is, she doesn't want to add to that) but this _is_ selfish and then she gets it, totally understands if _he_ shoves _her_ away, says no, tells her she's a bitch for leading him on, if he leaves now, moves out and the last thing she'll ever see of him (of anyone) is their back as they walk away (always from her) but, _but_.

This man seems to be in the business of constantly surprising her because he doesn't do _any_ of these things.

What she thought was him pulling away, was really just him reassuring her and maybe even himself. His eyes trace one more path along the planes of her face and there must be some unsaid question of his that he might have found the answer to in her eyes cause then he squeezes her hands softly before bracing his right hand on the wall next to her head while his left grips her thigh where he strokes the skin exposed by the short hem of her dress lightly.

He wraps her leg around his hip and she's taken aback by the unbridled lust in his gaze – there's none of that softness that just earlier dominated his stare, only his pupils dilating with desire that the black nearly encapsulates the natural blue of his eyes. She feels him grow hard as he shifts his feet to accommodate her.

He smirks at her gasp when he finds her center, at her quiet moan when he nearly brushes her bundle of nerves. He moves his lower half lightly against hers and she closes her eyes at the warring sensation of too much and not enough.

"Shut up," she hisses once more, rendered incapable of stringing any other two words (much more a sentence) together, when her back slightly arches at his next shallow thrust and she's starting to think he's avoiding that certain spot _on purpose_ when his smirk deepens.

"Haven't said anything," he pants as he lifts her thigh higher that she has to move her hands from his hips to grip hard at his shoulders and widen her legs just to keep her balance. The position allows the hem of her already very short dress to ride up, nearly to her hips, and for his lower body to align perfectly with her own so that at his next slow push, he rubs right _there_ , right at the nub in the apex of her thighs.

"Neither have you but your body is telling me everything I need to know," he continues, "isn't that right, _Emma_?"

The way he says her name, low and husky and dripping with desire sets her body aflame in the way she was looking for and she wants to keen at the way he quickens his pace just a tad, to tighten her hold on the fabric stretching deliciously taught across hardened muscles but she does none of that, clamps her lips shut and doesn't say _anything_ in reply, just to spite him.

But then, his next thrust has the seam of his jeans sliding deliciously atop her little button and she can't help the way her mouth falls open and a long, breathy moan escapes her.

His lips remain fixed in a smirk and his tone is smug as he murmurs, "there's a good girl."

She'd be mad at that and the languid pace he's on but abruptly, he twists his hips in a dirty grind that has her heart racing ten-fold, her clit throbbing near-achingly and her hips twisting madly in response to the rhythm he's set – so she forgoes her pride and focuses on the expert way he plays her body.

His eyes, which had not left hers, slide down her face to follow the way her blood tinges the skin of her cheeks, down to her chest, a bright red. He brings his free hand to her neck where he can feel her pulse beat strongly and erratically against his thumb and it must do something to him because he lets out a groan before sucking at the expanse of skin there.

The volume of her moans increases as she soon learns that the more responsive she is, the more he's willing to give her what she wants.

(And maybe cause she understands how intoxicating it is to hear the affect you have on someone and so she's become addicted to how easy it is for her to illicit a response from him in return.)

He moans when her thrusts intensify and she runs her fingers fiercely from his scalp to the hair at the nape of his neck with one hand while she rakes her nails down the length of his back with the other, then lower still where it settles on his ass and she pulls him impossibly closer.

She chants, "yes" under her breath when he ruts his hips against her hard and lifts her so that she now has both her legs wrapped around him. He mouths at one of her hardened nipples through the material of her dress and it occurs to her, belatedly, that they are _literally_ dry humping in earnest now, like a couple of horny teenagers whose parents could be home any minute.

And maybe because she's never had that experience, growing up in a shit ton of equally shitty foster homes. The thought makes her feel light and giddy and that's it, that's what sets her off.

(That and the way his teeth nip at her nipples in a delicate balance between pain and pleasure, _probably_ , but who knows, it could have been anything really.)

(Nope. Not fooling anyone today, not even herself, apparently.)

" _Fuuuuuck_ ," she hisses as she comes.

"That's it love," he moans at her ear as he maintains his drawn out but fierce pace so as to prolong her orgasm, "let me hear you."

"Oh my god," she pants when she rides out the last of her pleasure, resting her forehead on his shoulder.

He chuckles.

"Oh lass," he starts, nibbling at her earlobe before sucking it into his mouth. He pulls back with a pop to look directly in her eyes when he declares heatedly, "I'm not done with you yet."

And just like that, she's keyed up again.

"Good," she replies before kissing him, swiping her tongue against his bottom lip and relishing in his surprised grunt when she angles his head then his appreciative moan when she sucks at his tongue. When she pulls back, she looks at him with the same lust-driven ferocity as she says, "cause I'm ready for more."

With a growl that goes straight to her core and reignites the inferno in her belly and across her skin, he tightens his grip on her before walking them out of the hallway and straight into their living room.

"And I'd hate to disappoint," he replies, voice smooth and sultry as he squeezes her bottom.

He nearly drops her on the way there when she licks a stripe up his throat and bites at his jaw in retaliation, his strangled groan and warning squeeze against her thighs doing nothing but encouraging her.

Killian is usually the epitome of poise and grace but the way he unceremoniously dumps her on the couch makes her laugh instead of her more common reaction of violence when she feels manhandled.

"Eager, are we?" she teases and because she knows the answer, she wastes no time in tugging her dress off and throwing it somewhere behind her.

Killian's nostrils flare as he stares unabashedly at her naked form. If she wasn't already undressed, she could have sworn his molten gaze would melt her clothes off.

He licks his lips, his eyes burning a path from her toes and all the way to her face before his gaze settles on her own green orbs and her breath catches on the vulnerability she sees in him.

"You're stunning, Emma," he says softly and suddenly, her heart is racing for a different sort of reason – one that has nothing to do with giving in to her raging libido and everything to do with the way he says the words like he's speaking about more than just her body.

Because this – getting naked, fucking – this is an intimacy she can do. _This_ , she's good at, she knows for sure as using her body has never been a problem for her. Just ask the various perps she's lured in to meet-ups at a bar with fake profiles on Tinder or any of the other assorted online dating sites.

But the other kind of naked, the baring of the soul, the intimacy of opening her heart to someone else, even Killian – _that_ nakedness has never boded well in her case and in a lot of ways, is a more intimate act for her than the satisfaction of her most concupiscent needs.

Fuck, she thinks, fuckfuck _fuck_. This is exactly what she was trying to avoid in the first place yet it is now, quite _literally_ , staring her in the face.

And she can walk away, yeah.

But because she is a complete clusterfuck when it comes to her emotions (emotions in general, when she really thinks about it) and still horny as hell, she responds in the only way she knows how – with either sarcasm, humor or seduction.

"And you're still wearing way too much clothing."

And tonight, seduction takes the lead.

She leans on the edge of the couch and reaches for the his belt buckle, more than ready to divest him of his clothing and go back to their previous libidinous atmosphere, when his hands stop her.

She groans to cover her fear that this is the moment he will step away – call her out for being so callous and turn his back on her and she wouldn't blame him.

(Would blame herself.)

To soften the blow, she employs another one of her favorite coping mechanisms and comments sarcastically, "Oh, did you want to shave down there first? Prefer to do it with the lights off? Or would you like me to tell you how beautiful you are and baby, we can take it slow if you want to..."

It doesn't come out as snidely as she wants it to, especially when he's the one towering over and she's resting her head against his thigh and practically purring at the way his fingers massage her scalp.

He chuckles. "Thank you for your consideration, love. You _do_ know how to make a man feel safe and wanted."

She glares suspiciously when he lets go of her hair and kneels before her.

"Jones," she starts bitingly, "what the hell are you doing?"

She has a pretty good idea of what his intentions are and it's not like she doesn't want him to because she _does_ – she really, _really_ does. But she doesn't have the fondest memories when it comes to this _particular_ experience, memories of selfish lovers and all too brief and disappointing one-night stands flashing through her mind.

"I want to taste you," he says so simply that it manages to both catch her off guard and raise her horniness levels.

He must read the apprehension in her face because he says, "I understand if you don't want me to, just say the word and we'll stop right now. You hold all the cards here, love. You did, in all honesty, jump me when you got home."

She snorts. "I don't see you complaining."

He smirks, "I'm not. I'm really not." But his expression takes on that earnest quality it does when he's about to lay his cards on the table and his next words don't disappoint. "However, considering today's circumstances, I was hoping you would grant me this one thing for you since you rejected the idea of anything else." He sighs, eyes open and imploring as he adds, "I just want to make you feel good, Emma. Not because I expect anything in return but because you're a good person and you deserve to be cherished. I'll take care of you. Trust me."

"I do."

Her response is instantaneous and shocks her – and him – because _what the fuck?_ Where did _that_ come from?

But she's genuinely surprised to discover that she means it and sort of... _believes_ him when he says he'll take care of her.

He has so far this night.

(The past two years.)

The last of her nervousness fades away at the way he smiles, the corners of his mouth tugging up so high his dimples deepen enough to be visible through his dark scruff.

The smile turns lecherous though, when he disentangles the hand in her hair and asks her to lay back. She does so, eagerly, relieved to return to familiar ground.

"I'll make you feel good, Swan."

"Confident," she quips.

And she can see why because the man wastes no time. Her legs fall open of their own accord to rest on his shoulders and then he's dipping his head and going right for her folds.

He goes down on her, _masterfully_.

Where previous attempts were sloppy and more about the pride of her previous partners saying they did it rather than _actually_ doing it, Killian _actually_ listens to her - more specifically, her body. He seems to be cataloguing every sound that passes her lips with the intention of getting her to make it again.

(Like the way her nails scrape against the upholstery when he licks at her folds and she lets out these tiny gasps or how her hips jump every time he circles her clit and she releases a whine because he's close to where she wants him to be and still so far.)

It usually takes Emma a while to come a second time (since she never really stays long enough for the second round) so is pleasantly surprised when the familiar tingling in her belly surfaces rather quickly.

Her eyes close, heat surges through her, her walls clench, body tightening and then he takes her clit in his mouth and not just laves, but _sucks_ , moans around her swollen nub and–

–and then she's there, _again_ , reaching that glorious peak and staying there for a seemingly suspended moment in time when he doesn't let up, just keeps his mouth on her clit as she pinches at her nipples to draw out her climax.

He slows at the near-painful way she grips his hair and she feels oversensitive everywhere, little aftershocks from her second orgasm of the night still coursing through her.

She nearly lets out a guttural " _fuck_ " when she chances a glance at Killian – his eyes dark, his cheeks and neck tinged red and his chest heaving like he was the one who was just given one of the best orgasms of their life. His lips glisten, actually fucking _glisten_ , with her release and hell if it isn't the most erotic thing she's ever seen.

He rests his cheek on her thigh, an imitation of her earlier position on him, and hums.

"You're ravishing, Emma. Especially when you come." He shakes his head, like he can't quite believe where he's at. "Love the taste of you on my tongue." He licks his lips, at her essence, seriously _fuck_ , before cooing, "God, I love watching you come."

He rubs his stubble against her skin and she jerks a bit, partly because it tickles and partly because she's just so god damn sensitized.

"What do you say, darling?" He asks, voice deceptively soft and calming, like he's planning to lull her into sleep, not make her implode with yet another climax. "Think you can handle one more go? Will you let me try again?"

She has no idea where the hell he's going to pull off one more orgasm from her. Emma has enough trouble coming during the first round, let alone another, all in the same night.

But seeing as he's driven her to the edge _twice_ now, (and no penis in sight. _Yet_ , her sex-addled brain supplies helpfully) Emma thinks he's _more_ than welcome to try.

And because she hasn't had this experience in a while and figures, _what the hell_ , she boldly (read: breathlessly) says, "Use your fingers this time."

His smile could be described as radiant, if it weren't for the way it curls into an obscene grin.

"There's a good girl," he echoes his earlier words but instead of it filling her with indignation, it just makes her spread her legs wider in anticipation, this time resting them on the edge of their sofa.

(She makes a mental note to have it reupholstered and repositioned because she is never looking at it the same way again - not a piece of furniture with sole purpose of seating people but that conveniently horizontal surface where Killian ate her out and is currently about to finger fuck her into _oh my god_.)

"You're so wet," he whispers in amazement as he coats his finger with her juices.

It's like they're both holding their breaths before cause when he slides his digit inside her, they simultaneously release long, puffs of air.

" _Fuck_ ," he's the one to say it this time and she props herself on her elbows. She doesn't think she's ever seen him so flushed, or so intent, at something and it isn't even any something, he's intent on her and damn if it doesn't Do Things to her insides.

"Yeah," is all she can say.

He leans in then and kisses her, tongue dragging against the seam of her lips. She opens for him and _god damn fuck_ , he kisses like he's still going down on her – feral and intense, all teeth clacking and no finesse, like he wants to devour her and can't possibly wait. He uses his other hand to tangle in her hair and turn her head the way he wants to so he can weave his tongue around hers.

He trails kisses down her neck to her collarbone, where he leaves another mark, then moves to her breasts where her nipples have strained to pointed peaks, begging for attention. He takes one rosy bud into his mouth and sucks at it till it turns an angry red while he rolls the other with his thumb and forefinger. Then he drags his jaw between the valley of her breasts and she nearly squeals at the way his scruff scrapes along her skin, rough rubbing against smooth, such a contrasting sensation but heightens her pleasure for that same reason.

(She has a thing for his beard on her skin, god, _what even?_ )

He gradually pulls away, having moved to her other breast, to add a second finger inside her and she's so wet, practically soaking through the fabric of the couch, it takes no effort at all. She half-moans, half-whines because it feels good, yeah, his fingers running along her walls but he does it _so_ slowly.

But he curls both fingers slightly, changes the angle of his thrusts and brushes against the spot inside her guaranteed to bring her to completion that her hips give a tiny, near-imperceptive jolt.

He must notice because he brushes that spot again and this time she feels her walls clench.

"Killian," she whispers.

And it's not like she's never said his first name before, because she has, but more often than not she addresses him as "Jones" or "idiot" when's being particularly annoying (which is most of the time but... yeah).

Cause there's a certain power in letting someone know your first name, an intimacy to it because you can have generations of Jones and Smiths and a host of other people sharing your last name.

But a first name can be solely yours, at least within your family, and it means something to her, _her_ first name.

( _Emma_ , embedded in purple on the handmade knitted blanket she was found in. The only good thing her parents ever gave her before they abandoned her on the side of the freeway.)

So she doesn't freely allow just anyone to use it and she figures he felt the same way because she was always either "Swan" or "love" to him.

(And dear and lass and darling and sweetheart and a multitude of other pet names, which irks her sometimes.

But it's _safer_.)

His name, his _first_ name, slips from her lips in this moment and it feels right.

His eyes snap, from where he was watching his fingers move inside her, to hers and he groans – something strained and lascivious at the same time.

"Killian," she says, a little louder because she thinks he might like it when she says his name like that.

Her suspicions are confirmed when he closes his eyes and lets out another "fuck" before latching on to her gaze again and increasing the movement of his fingers.

"You're so tight Emma," he moans, voice hoarse and wrecked, "love the way your cunt feels around my fingers."

"Killian," she sighs, "don't stop."

He doesn't.

Starts fucking her in earnest now, his fingers moving so deeply inside her that his palm brushes her clit on every thrust.

The familiar pressure builds in the pit of her stomach and she can't believe he got her here _again_ but her body can't betray her – her toes curl and her blood rushes through her veins and she feels heat _everywhere_.

"So beautiful, love." He curls his fingers more so that he's not just brushing her g-spot but actually hitting it and she cries.

"Won't you come for me, sweetheart?" He presses his thumb against her clit just as he gives one final push, "Come for me, Emma."

And she does.

She comes so hard, in a chorus of "KillianKillianfuckshitfuck _Killian_ " and she's shaking, and her back arches and she might actually pass out from the intensity of her orgasm. Blindly, she reaches for his hand to stop his movements because she feels so good it's borderline painful.

She doesn't let go, doesn't want to, with his digits inside her making her feel full as she continues to spasm.

When she does let go (with a mournful groan as his dexterous fingers slip from her), she collapses against the couch, bringing both hands to cover her face because _what just happened?_ And if it weren't for the way she feels so god damn boneless and sated, she wouldn't have believed she'd just come three times. She's never felt so sexually satisfied in her life and he... he hasn't even been _inside her._

"Just... just..." she huffs through her fingers, "give me a minute."

She jumps when she feels the throw blanket they keep on the couch go over her and she drops her hands to see him properly.

"Wait, what?"

He chuckles as sits on the floor in front of her since she's occupying the length of the couch. He brushes errant curls from her face, the gesture so tender it's almost like they hadn't just participated in salacious activities.

"It's alright, Swan. There's no need."

Seriously, _what?_

"What?"

"It's not that I don't want to, cause I do. Believe me, I do." He groans painfully as he shifts in his position, no doubt his pants are uncomfortably tight.

"So what's the hold up?"

Cause _she_ sure as hell doesn't know. _She's so confused._

"I know something happened today that... that caused you to act out the way you did."

She begins to protest but he shuts her up with, "Now Swan, admit it. If it were any other night, you wouldn't have done this. After all, we've lasted two years without us ever..." He clears his throat and blushes to the tips of his ears, like he didn't just bring her to completion three times in three different ways (four, if he hadn't insisted on this... talk? Intervention? Impromptu therapy session?) and it's _ridiculous_. He's ridiculous.

"Then _this_ particular day arrives and you come home with steam blowing off your ears and you're telling me you aren't acting out? I _know_ you, Emma."

And just like that, he's not. He's the complete 180 degrees of ridiculous.

She wants to deny it, but he's right. He _does_ know her. And that's exactly what she did.

 _She's_ ridiculous.

He sighs. "I shouldn't have done that, I shouldn't have taken advantage like that."

Shame colors his features.

She's the one who jumped his bones and he feels like _he's_ the one that's somehow at fault here?

 _Fuck_.

"I'm sorry," she whispers but it feels small and insignificant. All she can think is how she's a horrible person for putting him through this cause they've been roommates for two years and she keeps him at arm's length even when he finds his way through the cracks. But that's the thing, he managed to knock down some of her walls even when she's trying so hard to cling to them cause she is afraid of more so she drew a line between them and he knows it and she knows it and so, she likes to think they're _friends_ at least.

Or, she hopes they're still, after tonight.

Ryan thinks she knows jack shit about family? Well, joke's on you buddy, cause she knows jack shit about relationships in general.

She expects Killian to be mad now and never want anything to do with her again. But, of course, he surprises her by doing the exact opposite.

He takes her hands in his own. "Don't be," then he intertwines their fingers so he can place a kiss on each of her knuckles. He smiles, something soft and sweet and innocent that her stomach swoops, so different from the way it did before. "I'm not."

It's then he ducks his head down a bit as he continues. "I believe you've known of my feelings for you for quite some time now." Her jaw drops and she scrambles for a response because _how the hell_ do you answer that? When a, 'yeah but I choose to ignore it because I'm a fuck up when it comes to relationships and emotions scare the shit out of me so I tend to bury it' doesn't feel like an appropriate response?

He saves her the trouble of replying when he squeezes her hands and this time, he looks her straight in the eye when he says, "I'm just saying, that when I do have you, it won't be because of any trickery or defaults. It will be because you want me."

It's too much. _He's_ too much and she doesn't know what to say. She's so overwhelmed cause it's one thing to see the looks he gives her and turn a blind eye to it. It's another to actually hear him say that he wants her, sounds an awful lot like's he's willing to fight for her, and relate it to all the other ways he shows her just how much she means to him.

Seeing him so open and vulnerable and just as _terrified_ as her... it's like something in her connects and she's scared, but not because of the emotions running through her but because of how much she wants _him_ too.

If she could just let go enough to _let him in._

"But... you... you don't want me to, to-"

God, _why_ must she suck at expressing her feelings?

"I meant what I said. You deserved to be cherished, Emma, and that's what tonight was all about." He stands and when he lets go of her hands she sits up too. Before he goes, he presses a kiss to her forehead.

"Consider it a birthday present, to make up for the one I couldn't give you when you came home."

"Wait, _what?_ "

She's _so_ eloquent tonight, but he doesn't seem to mind, just gives her this elusive smile.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go take a shower. A _cold_ shower." He chuckles. "Enjoy the rest of your night, love."

She watches him go in disbelief, whistling 'happy birthday' as he does but stops before he reaches his room.

He turns to her with a wink as he points at something on their dining table. "A little something, if you're hungry." Then he waves like the dork that he is. "Happy birthday, Emma."

When she hears the click of his door as it shuts, she wraps the blanket around her and leaps to her feet to see what he was pointing at.

There, on their table, are two placemats and on each plate, is a grilled cheese sandwich sliced into two triangles and a serving of onion rings on the side – her go-to meal from her favorite diner, Granny's. On her place at the table, next to her plate, is a mug of what was probably steaming, hot chocolate, topped up with whipped cream and a dash of cinnamon – just how she prefers it.

And sitting, in the middle of all that, is a larger version of her favorite cinnamon and buttercream cupcake and on top of it, a long, blue candle with a star where the wick sits on its tip. The words, "Happy 28th Birthday, Emma! Love, K" written in loopy, chocolate icing on a white, edible card propped against the front of the giant cupcake.

She thinks it's reading the "Love, K" that does it cause then she's crying. Sad tears because she's 28 but this is the nicest thing anyone's ever done for her but happy tears too, because she's only realizing that she _does_ have someone willing to do nice things for her. Not just because they expect anything in return, as evidenced by tonight, but simply because they _want_ to.

And she didn't believe this could happen to her again. _Ten_ fucking _long_ years, since she last opened up to someone because of what one jerk (and countless other foster homes) did to her and how fucked up is that? That she allowed these assholes to control her life and her choices like that?

Well, Emma's still scared, that's for sure. But she's _so_ done hiding.

All she has to do now is: dust the cobwebs from her heart, gather her courage, apologize for being a moron, and tell Killian Jones that she wants him and she's in love with him, been there for a while now and was just too afraid to grasp it because she didn't want to lose him.

Easy, right?

She groans.

 _Fuck._

* * *

AN: I wrote this cause I was having a BEYOND shitty day (on my birthday, like Emma, ha, so see what I did there?) and when I was thinking of ways to cheer myself up (that sounded less sad in my head) I figured, some CS smut never hurt anybody right? Some good old fashioned Emma and Killian banging. Period. And this plot bunny came to me.

Then I realized, I don't know how to write smut!

Or good smut, at least.

So from being a stress reliever it became a smut writing exercise meant to get my creative juices flowing (pun totally intended) but ended causing me stress again cause I wanted to finish but didn't think I would because I kept blaming and now it has spanned nearly 7000 words? Well, that's also because I read shit tons of smut to try to find some inspiration. And I can never resist adding some angst. Oops.

Also, doesn't hurt to post it during this week of celebration because OUAT RETURNS THIS SUNDAY WHOOP! We will soon be reunited with our beloved characters once again. Are you guys ready? CAUSE I AM NOT.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! As I said, I don't often write full blown smut, it's always been hints here or there, so constructive criticism is most welcomed, as well as general flailing over Captain Swan and SUNDAY and indignant cries of, "but there was no penetration!"

You can also find me on tumblr under the same username, if you prefer to have a chat there!

P.S. Title taken from the song Birthday Sex by Jeremiah cause it was stuck in my head throughout the time it took me to write this.


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